King was somewhere back between our rig and his, cussing Pochette to a fare-you-well for having such a rotten layout and making white men pay good money for the privilege of risking their lives and property upon it.
"We'll have to unload and take the wagon to pieces and pack everything ashore--I guess that's our only show," said Frosty.

We had just given up my idea of working the scow up along the bar to the bank.

We couldn't budge her off the sand, and Pochette warned us that if we did the wind would immediately commence doing things to us again.
Frosty's idea seemed the only possible way, so we threw away our cigarettes and got ready for business; the dismembering and carrying ashore of that road-wagon promised to be no light task.

Frosty yelled to Pochette to come and get busy, and went to work on the rig.

It looked to me like a case where we were all in the same fix, and personal spite shouldn't count for anything, but King was leaning against the wheel of his buggy, cramming tobacco into his stubby pipe--the same one apparently that I had rescued from the pickle barrel--and, seeing the wind scatter half of it broadcast, as though he didn't care a rap whether he got solid earth beneath his feet once more, or went floating down the river.
I wanted to propose a truce for such time as it would take to get us all safe on terra firma, but on second thoughts I refrained.